


Sand & Snow

by CoutureWriting



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: ASoIaF, AU, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Post - A Dance With Dragons, Queen Daenerys, Queen Sansa, Romance, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 16:19:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoutureWriting/pseuds/CoutureWriting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"No matter what becomes of our family, and as much as I say I would die if anything more were to happen to mine, we do go on. We do. We do. We have to. If the good people do not rebuild this kingdom and their lives, then who will?" </p><p>After the end of the civil war and an invasion of White Walkers that almost tore Westeros apart, recovery is bittersweet. Nymeria sits on Queen Daenerys' small council as Master of Laws, a position she does not not enjoy, nor particularly want. To honour her father's memory, she listened Arianne's advice and took her place in King's Landing to repair the relationship between Houses Targaryen and Martell. The allure of courtly life is lost on her, and she misses home terribly. Jon is now a Targaryen still wishing he was a Stark. Appointed as Hand of the Queen, he holds more power than he ever thought possible in his life after the dissolution of the Night's Watch. But his life as the Queen's only heir is a lonely one, when all he longs for is his family in Winterfell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A New Council

NYMERIA

 

For what felt like the hundredth time that morning, Nymeria sighed and wondered if the small council meetings would ever seem any less dull to her. She did what she could to alleviate it – tap her fingers soundlessly on the wooden table, allow her gaze to wander to the breaking waves down on the bay or stare intently at a fine detail in the face of whomever was talking – but to no avail. Boredom had set in.

Summer was well and truly upon them, and the heat was sweltering, and though she preferred the dryness of Dornish summers, she did not dislike it. How could she, when she could still remember so well the chill of winter that had not so long ago suffocated the land? Or the terrifying, murderous white walkers – the stuff of children’s nightmares – that had since been destroyed by the queen’s dragonfire? Summer was a blessing, always. The people were no longer starving, bread was no longer worth more than gold and freezing winds haunted no one. Except perhaps the Northmen, though Nymeria thought them mad.

It was Jon who was now speaking. The Hand of the Queen. She smiled despite herself. Though she saw little Targaryen in his long, brooding Stark features, people often compared him to his now-apparent father, Rhaegar. As the Queen’s nephew, he was a natural leader - after all, he had commanded the Night’s Watch before it had been dissolved, and earnt Daenerys’ favour quicker than most.

Nymeria did feel privileged to be on the small council, even if she felt out of place and ill at ease. It was an honour to be asked, at least … and an honour for Dorne, too, and her father’s memory. Still, she thought perhaps Sarella would be better suited to the intrigue and politics of the court. Nymeria, for all her gratitude, missed home terribly.

The queen’s request for a Martell to join her small council had gone a long way to repairing the fragmented Targaryen-Martell relationship, easing the blow her family had been dealt when Rhaegar had abandoned Elia for the Stark girl. Despite the fact that when she had arrived, Nymeria had sensed some disappointment in the queen that a bastard had been sent in place of a trueborn Martell, they had quickly grown fond of each other, and the queen now accepted her counsel as sound and sought her company freely.

“I am tired,” Daenerys announced suddenly, interrupting Jon with an apologetic smile. “We have been here for hours, my limbs have turned to stone and I fear the sun is almost set. Let us take our leave early and leave this business for the morrow.”

Nymeria nodded in agreement, a motion followed by several others, including fat Grand Maester Tarly, who many believed too young for the role, despite Jon's confidence in him. With a grateful sigh, Nymeria closed her books. She could have kissed the queen’s feet for calling the meeting to an end.

The room emptied quickly, until only she and Jon remained. She stood, clutching the books in her arms and smiled gently at him. Though he had only seen twenty namedays, he moved and looked a good deal older, perhaps older than Nymeria herself, at eight-and-twenty.

“Wine?” he offered her a cup, and she took it, standing awkwardly with her things lodged under one arm. She observed his grace as he poured his own cup, and then resumed his seat at the table.

Rather than stand, Nymeria took the queen’s vacant seat adjacent to his, at the head of the long table, and sipped at the wine, which was perhaps too sweet for her personal taste. When she looked up, she met Jon’s gaze.

“I have never been to Dorne,” he mused eventually. “Do you miss it very much?”

“Very much,” Nymeria said after a moment. “Though I do not think myself as one particularly prone to sentiment, I miss my sisters. And the food. The smells, too. This city stinks of Gods know what. Sometimes I catch scents of home in the perfume of one or two ladies of the court and it sends me into bouts of homesickness... but it was a great honour to be asked to sit upon the small council.”

Jon nodded. “I think about Winterfell every day. A part of me wishes I were still there, and my sister Sansa has invited me more than once. But without my father or brother there, I don’t know how it would feel. I am happier, I think, believing they live on there with my other siblings.”

Though she did not comment on it, Nymeria noted the terms _sister_ , _father_ and _brother_. It was well known that Jon had not adjusted to the revelation of his parentage well. He was still prone to sign papers as ‘Jon Snow’ until gently reminded by Daenerys to use his true name. For however rushed or disputed the ceremony, Rhaegar _had_ married Lyanna Stark before Jon's birth. He was not the first Targaryen to have two wives, nor would he be the last.

“I understand,” said Nymeria quietly. “I hear the Queen in the North has restored Winterfell to quite its former glory.” Inwardly, Nymeria felt a sense of pride that the Stark girl had inherited the title, rather than either of her younger brothers, just as succession was done in Dorne.  _Properly_ , she thought _, as it should be_.

Jon smiled sadly. “I hope so. Though it will take years for the Northern houses to recover, there are so few men left. And my sister is still, as yet, to take a husband.” He smiled at that, and then quickly sobered. “I fear her experience in the war taught her to be more cautious of knights, lords and _princes_ , and their pretty, empty words... though it does not matter... she needs no man, or children, to rule.”

Nymeria smiled despite herself. “She has proved herself very capable, indeed.”

Jon looked at her once again. “Tell me more of your sisters. I enjoy stories of Dorne.”

Nymeria smiled. “My sisters? Of which would you like to hear?”

“All.”

“All? Where do I begin, my lord? Obara is the only one older than I... my younger sisters and I often tease her that she was born into the world ready to fight, a spear in hand... whatever men say she lacks in looks, she makes up for twofold in strength and skill. Her loyalty is unwavering and she reminds me very much of my father in all ways but looks,” said Nymeria wistfully. “She is perhaps the only one who misses him more than I.”

She drained the contents of her cup before continuing.

“After me, there is Tyene, and she is a great beauty. Despite her bastardy, she has been proposed to so many times that we have quite lost count. Her mother was septa, though I do not know whom, and she pretends to have inherited all the good graces of one, but it is a farce. She looks not a bit like any of us, and took after her mother... she is all golden hair and blue eyes. I remember a bard once sang of her beauty for a day and a night straight when she asked him to. She has a slight hand with poison but is also gifted at healing.”

“She sounds quite frightening,” chuckled Jon, refilling both of their cups with more of the sweet wine. “Who comes next?”

“Sarella," Nymeria smiled even as she said the name, "she’s a peculiar one. She’s meant to look the most like me, but we couldn’t be more different. Really, it is she who should be here in my place. She loves to learn whatever she can and would be constantly sticking her nose into other people’s business. It used to irritate my father to no avail, but has proved useful more than once. She would perhaps make a better Master of Whisperers, though, rather than a Master of Laws like me.”

She sipped at the wine for a moment. “The rest of my sisters – Elia, Obella, Dorea and Loreza, are all the daughters of Ellaria Sand, my father’s greatest love. Elia would only be three years younger than you, though acts more like a horse than a lady. The three youngest are as thick as thieves, though it frightens me sometimes how like Obara, Tyene and I they have become.”

Nymeria laughed despite herself, and took another gulp of wine quite hurriedly. “Ellaria is gentle and kind, but she does not understand how we continue to hold a grudge for the deaths of our aunt, cousins and our father, too. She appears to be in constant worry of what we might do, or worse yet, what her own daughters might do under our influence. Still, my father loved her very much, and she means a great deal to me, as do my sisters. I think I should die if anything happened to any one of them.”

Jon nodded. Nymeria knew he must have been thinking of the loss of his own brother and father. Half tempted to take his hand and give it a comforting squeeze, she opted instead to stand, lean forward carefully, and press a gentle kiss to his cool forehead.

Collecting her things, she was just about to leave before she turned and said, “No matter what becomes of our family, and as much as I say I would die if anything more were to happen to mine, we do go on. We do. We do. We have to. If the good people do not rebuild this kingdom and their lives, then who will?” She wondered for a moment if it was Jon to whom she spoke, or herself.

With one final, sad smile, she turned on her heel and left the room. 


	2. An Unexpected Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varys has an interesting proposition for Nymeria.

JON

 

“To the queen,” Tyrion Lannister cried, holding his cup out to toast.

“To the queen,” Jon echoed, as his cup met the dwarf’s with a satisfying _clunk_. He sipped thoughtfully as Tyrion downed his own wine, and poured himself another.

“So, would it be considered too impertinent for me to ask what held you and Nymeria Sand back today?” he asked, rubbing his hands together before reaching for a handful of grapes.

Jon’s thoughts immediately strayed to Nymeria. She had kissed him. Albeit on the forehead, she _had_ kissed him. Her lips had been soft – much softer than Ygritte’s chapped ones – the only other lips he’d ever known. That was peculiar.

She’d leant in, smelling heavenly – of orange blossoms, jasmine and spice – and when she did he had seen quite deeply into her silk gown, to the crevasse between her modest, orb-like breasts.

“Oh ho!” Tyrion called loudly from where he sat, as if to embarrass him, despite the fact they were alone. “I know that look.”

“What look?” asked Jon distractedly, irritated. He did not like to think of her in that way. He had never really thought that he’d think of another woman that way… not after Ygritte had died in his arms.

“That one,” chuckled Tyrion. “You look like a fish from Flea Bottom. Stunned, that is. I’d not have picked her as your sort of woman, but I do suppose she’s more handsome than most.”

Jon glanced at Tyrion. “I’m not… that’s not…”

“Not what?” Tyrion asked. “You’d have to be blind to her beauty, friend. Though I’ll warn you – I’ve heard Dornishwomen can be quite feisty indeed, and _adventurous_. Why, I heard a story about the loss of Arianne Martell’s maidenhead at fourteen. Yes, you could have picked many a poorer woman.”

With a sigh, Jon shook his head. “I don’t mean to take her as a wife.”

“Naturally not,” said Tyrion. “She is a bastard.”

Jon’s hand tightened on his cup, until he could see the whites of his knuckles. As much as he valued the company of the dwarf, he also had the tendency to annoy. And his comment had touched a nerve. “I’d sooner marry a bastard than a lady of the court,” he said, his voice low and terse. _It was not so long ago I was a bastard_ , thought Jon.

Tyrion must have noticed his anger, for he placed a hand on Jon’s arm. “Calm yourself, my friend. I meant no offence. I hardly think Lady Nymeria herself would be offended at that. They’re different, in Dorne. A man’s lover might feast with his wife, his eldest daughter may take his holdings before his son, his bastard children might be raised with his trueborn, and a princess’ maidenhead is of much less value than her beauty or her talents.”

Jon thought of Nymeria, unlike any woman he had ever beheld. If her looks did not set her apart from the other ladies, then her demeanor most certainly did. She concealed knives all about her person, and was said to be very skilled with them – indeed, she had cut off the braid of one of the queen’s Dothraki warriors whose hands had strayed beneath the table at one of the early celebratory feasts, earning her the contempt of the rest of them.

“It sounds to me as though Dorne might be a better place than King’s Landing,” said Jon finally. “They are at least only half as mad as the rest of you Southrons.”

~

The next morning was a bright one. Jon rose early, despite his being weary, and took a walk among the keep’s gardens with only Ghost for company.

When he was alone, he often found his mind wandering to his family. Most often, his father… no, not his father. His what? His uncle? The last time he had seen Ned, he’d promised they would talk about his mother. Jon had never known his mother laid beneath his footsteps his whole life at that point, in the Stark crypts that he rarely ventured into.

Again, he felt the familiar tug at his chest, the familiar ache to go home. Daenerys, aunt or no, was as good as a stranger to him. A kind, gentle one perhaps, but a stranger nonetheless. He ached to see Sansa’s pretty face, finally welcoming, as it had been, the last time he’d seen it when the war had been won. Sometime between leaving Winterfell and returning, she had finally accepted him as her brother, only to be told that he was as distant as he had ever been from them. A trueborn child now, but no son of Eddard Stark. A cousin.

Gods, he wanted to be there now. To scruff Arya’s hair now that she grew it out, to talk with Bran and to teach wild little Rickon all manner of things he would never know now that his eldest brother and father were gone.

Robb. A fresh wave of pain and guilt washed over him. He’d wished it, when they were younger; he’d wished that he be Lord of Winterfell one day. The sting of conscience had never quite gone away, that he had somehow caused his brother’s death in that childhood wish. His closest friend, his brother, his rival… how would _that_ hole in chest ever mend? How would the gap Robb had left behind ever be filled?

He placed his hand into the gentle ripple of water, listening to the pretty trickle of the fountain. The water was cool to the touch, and pleasant enough now that the sun was already beating down on the city. He closed his eyes and felt the water wash over his skin, as if it could cleanse away the sadness.

“My lord.”

He opened his eyes, and it took his eyes a moment to adjust to the sunlight, but there she was. Nymeria. Her ink-black hair was fastened away from her face, golden thread woven about her head. He noted that it was out of its usual braid. She wore a handsome gown of green silk that was nearly too sheer to still be modest and there was a heavy gold bangle at her wrist – a serpent, swallowing its own tail.

“May I?” she asked, gesturing to Ghost. Jon glanced at the direwolf, and saw him regarding the woman cautiously. He nodded.

Nymeria took a step forward, and Ghost’s hackles rose. Nymeria knelt down before him and offered her hand. He watched her with both beady red eyes for a few moments, and then leant forward to smell her hand cautiously. Gently, she scratched the underside of his chin.

Jon watched as, in a few moments, she had the wolf on his back, limbs splayed as she rubbed his chest, laughing to herself. “You’re not so fierce,” she told him, “you soft old thing.”

When she rose, she met Jon’s gaze with a wide, pretty smile. “Don’t you dare tell me how unladylike I am,” she said quietly. “I’ve been lectured twice already this past week by concerned noblewomen.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, my lady,” Jon replied. “I was merely going to say it was more than likely Ghost would take to you – you share a name with his littermate.”

“Nymeria?” she asked. “Why, she must be the fiercest, most handsome direwolf of the entire pack.” Unable to help herself, she began to laugh.

“My sister Arya would be very pleased to hear that,” said Jon.

“Will you walk with me?” Nymeria asked.

Jon stood, and she slid her arm into the crook of his elbow, and they walked in silence for several minutes.

“These gardens are very beautiful,” Nymeria said thoughtfully. “There is a magnificent garden in Dorne not far from Sunspear. The palace is called the Water Gardens, and it sits right on the coast. It was a gift from Prince Maron Martell to his bride, the first Princess Daenerys Targaryen.”

Nymeria paused to run her fingers through the shallow water of one of the ponds, and then turned to meet Jon’s gaze.

“The gardens and courtyard there are all paved in the finest pink marble. In summer, the smell is intoxicating… finer than any perfume you could bottle. The waters are always cool and inviting and are shaded by blood orange trees. There is a tradition there that any child, of any rank or parentage, may play in the water or down in the sea, together. I remember spending much of my childhood in the pools and fountains,” Nymeria continued.

“It sounds very picturesque,” said Jon. _And very different from Winterfell_ , he thought privately. He could imagine Nymeria as a little girl, frolicking in the shade of the orange trees, splashing her sisters and pealing with laughter.

She glanced at him, and he caught her gaze. She looked somehow curious – as if she were full of unasked questions. Perhaps she wished him to talk about his own childhood. What would he tell her? That he had been Eddard Stark’s wretched bastard son – despised by his father’s lady wife and alienated from his brothers and sisters. _No_ , thought Jon. _No_.

As if she sensed his reluctance, she moved away from him a picked a single pink rose from one of the bushes that now lay heavy with them. She lifted it to her nose and inhaled its sweet, modest fragrance.

“Perhaps I shall return to Dorne when things settle here,” Nymeria said, as she laid the rose into one of the pools, where it promptly floated away with a gentle push of her slender fingers. She sat on the pool’s edge, collecting her skirts in her hand, and watched it drift about.

Jon frowned. Though she had made no secret that she preferred her home to the capital – the customs, the people, the food and the heat – Jon was under the impression that she would remain in the capital indefinitely. “Soon?” he asked.

She looked up. “Perhaps, if the queen wishes to let me go. Oh, don’t look so wounded, Prince Jon. Have you always taken things so personally?”

“I… I don’t take it personally,” he said quickly.

“Well, you are the reason I want to leave,” she said, and ducked her head.

“What?” he demanded, alarmed.

When she reemerged, laughter was written all over her features. She chuckled. “Didn’t they teach you how to joke in the wretched North?” she asked, shaking her head. “You are a funny one, aren’t you?”

Jon did not know what to say. He found his thoughts wandering to Ygritte. How had he spoken to her? How had she ever taken him as a lover? His memories of that time were vague, but he could see her face as clearly as if she stood before him now.

“Off you go again,” Nymeria interrupted his thoughts. “Off on some tangent of thought that doesn’t involve me at all. Gods, I should love to know what you were thinking just then – the look on your face was so peculiar. I don’t suppose you would tell me?”

He smiled at that, and shook his head while she got to her feet and took him by the arm again, and they continued to walk.

 

 

NYMERIA

 

Varys was a shrewd man – clever and cunning. Even as he sat at the small table in her chamber, Nymeria felt uncomfortable, as though he knew some horrible truth about her, or had some terrible business to discuss with her.

 _Thank the Gods he is a eunuch,_ she thought. _Or a visit such as this from a man might ruin my reputation here entirely._

 “I suppose you are rather curious as to why I have decided to visit you,” he said, smiling subtly.

“What is a summer drink among friends?” asked Nymeria, a hint of steely sarcasm to her voice.

The truth was that Nymeria actually preferred Varys’ company compared to any women of the court. He was neither as dull nor as irritating as any of them.

“I see that you have been spending quite a bit of time with our new Prince Jon,” said Varys, ignoring completely the cup of wine Nymeria placed before him.

“Jon?” Nymeria repeated absently, and then turned to him sharply. “Is it possible to do anything at all without your noticing? Who was it then? The woman cutting flowers for the queen’s chambers or the children playing seek?”

Varys smiled. “Neither. But I do not divulge my secrets.”

“No, of course not,” said Nymeria, rolling her eyes. “Only those belonging to other people.”

“All I do is in the interests of the realm,” said Varys, “which is why the queen offered me my old position back.”

Nymeria shook her head, but smiled despite herself. She walked over to the window, the silk drapes dancing in the cool breeze that had rolled in. She had a stunning view of the bay from where she stood.

“Now, where was I?” Varys asked.

“You know exactly where you are,” said Nymeria, folding her arms across her chest. She did not turn to listen.

“Ah, yes, Jon,” said Varys. “As I was saying, it seems you’ve taken quite a shining to the queen’s nephew.”

Nymeria did not answer, and Varys appeared to take it as his leave to continue.

“I want to know what your plans are.”

She turned at that and stared at him shrewdly. “My plans? What do you mean?” she demanded.

“Do you mean to take him as a lover or a husband?” Varys asked.

“I have no intentions of either sort!” cried Nymeria defensively. “Besides, what makes you think he would take a bastard as a lover, never mind a _wife_?”

“He was a bastard himself until a few months ago,” he answered simply.

“That changes nothing,” said Nymeria. “This lot are peculiar indeed. They abhor bastards and women, but brother might marry sister with no concern of any kind and a man might take as many women and father as many bastards as he likes but a woman is permitted to lay with no man but her husband. My father always said anybody born north of Dorne would think backwards and back-to-front.”

“A very passionate speech,” said Varys. “I suggest that next time you make it, it should be before the queen and the court.”

Nymeria, annoyed, did not answer. “You have come here to ask about the prince and I have given you your answer. What do you want, if not to humiliate me further?”

“My dear, humiliation was not my aim,” the eunuch said. “I come to you with a proposition.”

She fixed him with an irritated gaze. “Anything you propose will be of no interest to me. I did not come to King’s Landing to play at these games, I came to bring honour to the house of my father.”

“And you can’t do both?”

“What is your proposition?” Nymeria snapped.

“That you follow my advice and continue to encourage whatever innocent romance is blooming between you and our young prince, until you can secure his proposal.”

Nymeria frowned. “And then what?”

“Why, marry him, of course,” said Varys, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “Marry him and perhaps, one day, become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. What better way have you to bring honour to the Martells, if that is your true desire?”

“Why do you want me to marry Jon?” asked Nymeria.

“Because, sweet girl, the alternative is Margaery Tyrell, and her husbands have a nasty tendency to end up dead. And Lady Tyrell likes to play at politics, unlike you.”

“You want me to be your pawn,” said Nymeria distastefully. “If I marry Jon I will never return to Dorne. And there is no guarantee the queen will accept any of this. I am a bastard, remember? I can’t think of a single bastard in history who has married the heir to the Iron Throne.”

“You may travel to Dorne as often as you like, though you might never live there again,” he said. “A small price to pay to be a princess, don’t you think? Jon is not unhandsome either, and would, I am sure, be a considerate lover.”

Nymeria laughed.

“You may laugh, but what I do, I do for the good of the realm,” said Varys. “A good match for Jon is imperative, and a wedding always boosts the morale of the smallfolk.”


End file.
